


Cabin Boy

by Foppotee



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Brother Billy, Canon Relationships, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Kid Fic, Kid!Silver
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-17 14:18:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8147212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foppotee/pseuds/Foppotee
Summary: Like most orphanages in 1715, St. John’s Home for Poor Orphan Boys wasn’t above selling its children to be indentured servants.While John Silver was hardly living the life of luxury as a merchant ship’s cabin boy, at least he had a roof over his head and a salary, however nonexistent it might as well be. He’d been so lucky to land not only a job, but a job with a future. A future that was being ripped away because of a fucking pirate ship.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear, this is canon except for the fact that John was born later in life than in the show. Everyone else is the same age.

In the end, what frustrated John most was how fitting the punishment really was.

Drenched in sweat and seawater, he could feel the stickiness of pitch through his shirt; the shameful black stripes catching his skin with every movement. He rocked with a rhythmic motion that, after a few weeks of obtaining his sea legs, unconsciously opposed the rolling of the deck.

The ship rocked and moaned—ropes straining and sea spray catching in the wind. Thin, browned arms stretched forward and then back again, core tightening to rest weight back on aching knees. Back and forth, back and forth.

The rhythm was easy to get lost in, but it also jostled the hornet’s nest of his mind as he tried to puzzle a way out of his current situation. He failed, of course. It was a simple, fair punishment for a stupid misdeed, but being _caught_ was not something that he was accustomed to. Being caught, but more than anything, being held accountable. He was usually excellent at slipping out of uncomfortable situations. Especially ones that irked him as this one did.

His problem was simple: John hated tar. He hated its stench and the way the thick aroma filled the ship and clung to one’s clothes and hair. He was disgusted by the sludge’s ability to attach itself to everything, and then stain so deeply that it was nearly impossible to remove afterwards. More than anything, though, he hated how it was used to caulk decks, so that when poor, unsuspecting cabin boys took a little nap on-duty, they were instantly outed by thick black streaks on their shirts and britches.

How could he have been so stupid? Holystoning the deck was a daily chore onboard the _Margaret_ , and while it wasn’t one of his primary duties, John was well acquainted with pitch in the decks after weeks of scrubbing it out with sand, stone, and water. His only excuse was that he’d been exhausted, and when presented with a rare opportunity to relax unsupervised, splaying out behind some barrels barely took any thought at all. Which was the problem, he supposed: not thinking.

Crew stole bits of sleep here and there all the time. When one faced the turmoil and hardships of the sea with little pay (and in some cases, forced servitude), true rest was a luxury few could afford, and while laziness was at times a death sentence at sea, it wasn’t uncommon for the occasional sailor to be shaken awake before an officer passed by.

John himself would’ve gotten off with a light reprimand if it hadn’t been the captain, of all people, who’d found him. Captain Parrish possessed a strict pride for cleanliness and order that carried over from his years in the British Royal Navy, and as such, when he found his cabin boy hidden and asleep while crew scurried dutifully around them, the man was less than pleased.

Which led to John’s current predicament: cleaning the very deck he’d napped upon as crew stepped over and around him—their smug grins burning the back of his bent, shaggy head.

 As such, with the sun hot on his neck and a film of salt gritty through his clothing, John narrowed his world to the rhythmic slide of holystone over sand and water. His eyes were lowered, drawn downwards with the crew’s knowledge that _he’d been caught_.

Stupid boy, they probably thought.

Just the idea made him scowl and scrape the holystone even harder, the rough, angry rumble of stone against wood strangely satisfying.

John was many things, but stupid was not one of them.  

With his brain abuzz, it was a minute or two before the cabin boy resurfaced long enough to notice the shift around him. At some point, the low static of conversation had shifted to a barrage belted orders, and no one paused any longer to tease the youngest sailor’s misfortune.

John flicked dark curls out of his eyes to survey the scene before him, stone still in hand and worry crinkling his brow. It was like someone had kicked a hornet’s nest, and now the men flew like wasps to and fro, their boots pounding the tempo of their agitation.

The hell was going on? Through the chaos, John searched for the captain and only found him when a glint of metal caught his eye from portside. There, in the calm eye of the storm, stood Captain Parish with a telescope to his eye and a quartermaster to his ear.

As much as he’d fancied the idea of lip reading, John had never actually the skill, so there was no way he’d discern what the two officers were saying over the noise. However, it didn’t take a genius to recognize how tense they were. Distressed, even.

  _Great_ , he thought. _That doesn’t bode well._

  Hearing the tell-tale sounds of a man mounting the rigging behind him, John twisted to see Mr. Webber begin his ascent. Though fairly slim in face, the man had a portly stomach and such a case of alcoholism that his skill and grace in the ship’s rigging made absolutely no sense to John. Even in a drunken stupor, though, the man was always of good humor, and he thanked John whenever the boy helped serve dinner, so he was alright.

“What’s going on?” John called.

Webber’s brown limbs didn’t pause in their movements, but he did spare a glance to the small figure below. “Pirates, boy,” he shouted, the wind nearly carrying is voice away. “You’d best get below deck, the gun crews will need ya!”

Then, without another word, the man continued up the rigging, ropes sagging beneath his portly weight. Even as he ascended, Webber’s practiced motions reflected nothing but coolness under pressure.

 John, meanwhile, felt like he’d just been slapped.

 Damp curls flew as the cabin boy whipped back towards his captain. This time, though, he looked beyond the uniformed figure.

He gasped. Choked. _Oh, God._  There. Beyond Captain Parrish, and larger with every passing moment. A ship with taunt sails and a garish black stain that could only be the dreaded pirate flag.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” he hissed, hastily throwing the damned sandstone away. One of the men drew up short with an indignant shout, but John was far beyond caring. Quick as his legs would carry him, the boy hustled his way across the rolling, tremulous deck—each step a sharp punch to his aching knees.

Downstairs, shelter from the Caribbean sun was only a sliver of the comfort it usually was. Leaning against roughened walls, he took a moment to re-orient himself and let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Meanwhile, several men hustled by without a glance to the frozen figure until, for a brief, rare moment, he was alone.

Everyone must be at their stations, John figured. They would need to be, with pirates on their tail.

Pirates. Shit, this couldn’t be happening.

It’s not like John particularly enjoyed being on a merchant ship, but when he’d been sold to the _Margaret_ all those months ago, he thought that he’d gotten a pretty good deal, all things considered. Like most orphanages, St. John’s Home for Poor Orphan Boys wasn’t above selling its children to be indentured servants, but unlike other places, they actually made a conscious effort to send their boys to decent establishments.

Well, sort of. Whenever it wasn’t an inconvenient, that is.

Lucky wasn’t a word that John prescribed to himself often, but he was pretty lucky to land the deal he had.

In Port Royal, you couldn’t throw a stone without hitting a young chimney sweep with black lung, and in Tortuga, John knew of the kids handed to—and often stolen by—buccaneers. That’s not even including the street urchins who plagued cities with nowhere to even take shelter.

Too often did John see these urchins with their dead eyes and skeletal hands, and think _that could be me_. So _easily_. Really, it would only take the faintest breeze of misfortune to land him there.

So, while John was hardly living the life of luxury as a merchant ship’s cabin boy, at least he had a roof over his head and a salary, however nonexistent it really was. He’d been so lucky to land not only a job, but a job with a _future_. Cabin boys were the lowest of the low on ships, but it was a chance for lads to learn and rise through the ranks. Nobles, John knew, often gave their sons away to be cabin boys with the hope that they’d be respectable officers one day.

In no way could John imagine himself as _respectable_ , but on the _Margaret_ , he still had a more promising future ahead of him than ever before.

A future that was being ripped away because of a fucking pirate ship.

John knew what happened on pirate raids. Everyone did, but the assholes who made up the _Margaret_ ’s crew had had a great time filling him in on any gory details he might’ve missed as a landlubber. He’d be lucky if he made it out alive.

Jerking John from his thoughts, the ship rocked violently beneath his feet. Gun fire thundered through the air, and the scream of shrapnel ripped through his meager composure.

 _Shit, shit, shit_ —he had to get away. He had to hide. Anywhere, it didn’t matter. He just couldn’t be _here_.

Hand thrown out to steady himself, John scurried behind the first large thing he saw—a crate—crouched the whole way as if it’d somehow help if a shot were to burst through the wall. He knew it wouldn’t. He’d die, instantly, if not horribly.

There had to be a better place to hide—if not from the cannons, then from the pirates themselves, because they would be boarding soon. The _Margaret_ was a merchant ship, and so exactly the kind of prize that pirates, always low on supplies, desired. The criminals would be chomping at the bit to tear the ship apart, and a random crate filled with mysterious goods would be a good place to start.

Then, as if fate answered him, the ship’s cook, Mr. Thomas, turned a corner and strode swiftly past John’s hiding spot.

As cabin boy, one of John’s main duties was to help in the kitchen, so he wasn’t unfamiliar with the man who ran it, or his temper. One day, after a particularly long session of peeling potatoes, John was informed with a blade to his throat that he was to “keep your damn mouth shut, you little shit, or we’ll be having tongue for dinner.”

After that little exchange, John only spoke to the cook when it was strictly necessary, so _surely_ the man had warmed up to him since then? Perhaps a little? Enough to let John tag along, surely, because wherever the cook was headed, it wasn’t up deck or toward the guns, that’s for sure. 

“Mr. Thomas,” John breathed, watching the large man scurry by. The cook either didn’t hear him or was pretending that he hadn’t, but whichever it was, the boy scrambled after him, anyway. “Mr. Thomas, wait for me!”

He got his feet back under him just in time to watch the cook disappear into a vacant room. With no time to think, John lunged forward and threw himself against the door, only for the cook to take one look at him, slam the passage shut again, and throw down a barricade.

Door securely locked, Mr. Thomas rounded on him. “Silver! What are you doing here, why aren’t you with Benjy?

“Benjy” was Benjamin Patrick, _Margaret_ ’s grouchy and scarred Master Gunman who hated children, complained about every meal put before him, and the person whom John was supposed to report to during battle.

A scrawny twelve-year-old, John couldn’t fight, but he was quick, and so he’d been ordered to ferry gunpowder magazines from the ship’s hold to the guns. Officially, John wasn’t a powder monkey, but that didn’t mean that as the only young boy on board, he wasn’t expected to serve as one when needed. Like, you know, right now.

“Are you _crazy_?” John yelped. “I’m not going out there, I’ll be _killed_.”

“And you think you won’t be when they find you here? What do you think the captain will do if he finds out you’ve abandoned your station? Or the crew?”

John’s teeth clacked shut and Thomas grinned down at him. They both knew the answer. He’d be killed be, probably. Flogged, definitely. Laziness was one thing, but cowardice was not a crime easily forgiven on the harsh seas, and whatever his punishment, it would be far more crippling than scrubbing the deck. They would likely ensure he’d never sail again. Not that John had a great love for sailing—the life was altogether too messy, dangerous, and crusty for his tastes—but the implication made his skin crawl.

Overwhelmed, John ran a hand through his dirty locks and felt tears prick his eyes. “Yeah?” he spat, suddenly resentful of this man and this entire shitstorm. As if he’d let either see him cry. “Well… well what about you, then?”

Mr. Thomas barked a humorless laugh. “Me? I’m a cook! I have no quarters _to_ man, and good cooks are in short supply—even for criminals. As for you? Well, cowards aren’t welcome at sea, boy, and it doesn’t matter whether your balls’ve dropped or not.”

The man pointed a meaty finger at the wall and the ship beyond it. “You know who that is out there? That ship flies the banner of Captain Flint. When they find you here, cowering below decks, dodging a fight? They’ll gut you for sport.”

The last statement was said with grin, as if pirates splitting John in two was a delightful thought.

Well. So much for the man warming up to him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to end it there! We didn't even see the Walrus crew, did we? :(
> 
> Alright, so this is definitely a product of wanting to read something so badly that I ended up writing it myself. You know how it goes, right? Black Sails absolutely ate my brain, and I am a horrible human being who thrives completely off of kid!fic, so when I saw only three or so stories with that tag, I began foaming at the mouth.
> 
> The only strange thing about all of this is that I'm not a writer. I don't post things. Like, at all. I am definitely a veteran lurker, so I caution you that even if I continue this, it won't be quickly or regularly. If I do continue, it might be through a series of connected one-shots, because that might be easier for my novice writer self to handle. Small steps and all that :)
> 
> If I do write more, though, rest assured that it will be longer than 2k bits. This is unusually short for me, but it's been sitting on my computer and I thought that I might as well share because there isn't nearly enough Black Sails fic out there. Furthermore, you can expect a lot of Silver & Flint Father/Son-Relationship goodness, though not overly fluffy because Flint is a grouch monster with communication issues and Silver is still a little shit who's too smart for his own good.
> 
> Anyways, please let me know what you think and leave some kudos if you liked it. Thanks! :)


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